Either way someone got hurt.
Aside from listening to him tell her not to do the things she'd wanted to do—like closing the accounts and business, putting the Poplar Street
house up for sale and buying another—there was really no reason why she shouldn't have told him. Furthermore, after she'd shifted the money, there was really no reason—apart from catering to her own comfort—not to tell him that it had been done.
By keeping those things from him, she'd indirectly escalated the importance of the one thing she had to hide—the Future Widows' Club.
She could not—would not—out them, no matter how much Jake felt betrayed.
There was too much at risk for them, for past, present and future members. For women like Cora, Gladys and Margaret. The Officials—like her, Jolie realized with an odd start—didn't have as much to lose. Their lives were their own now, their miserable husbands dead and buried.
But what about the Futures? It's what made their lives bearable, what made them keep going from week to week. And the minute the group became public that would all be over with. Oh, there were some people who'd laugh it off, think that it was funny, even some she suspected who'd want to join.
But then there'd be a select few who had good decent husbands who wouldn't understand and it would be those few who would turn the FWC and all of its members into social outcasts or morally bankrupt second-class citizens. The anonymity was its only protection, what made it especially unique.
Jolie shook her head, firmed her resolve as she walked up the steps. She wouldn't be responsible for taking that away from them. Not to save her own skin and certainly not to spare Jake's feelings. She was sorry, but that was simply the way it had to be.
Her mother stood at the stove stirring a pot of marinara as Jolie walked into the kitchen. She'd been to see Sadie and a fresh new color had replaced the faded shade she'd had just the day before. A container of gourmet coffee sat proudly next to the pot, causing Jolie's lips to slip into a pleased smile.
"Looked like there was a big brouhaha down at the square when I came through," her mother said. "I tried to call Sadie and see what was going on, but no one answered the phone at The Spa."
Jolie sank down into a chair at the kitchen table. "I didn't see her, but she was probably there. Someone, presumably the killer, glued Chris's missing penis to the statue of Jebediah Moon." Though she knew it was inappropriate, Jolie felt her lips twitch and she forcibly quelled a laugh.
Her mother stilled, then slowly turned around. Marinara dripped from the wooden spoon in her hand unheeded onto the floor. For a moment she appeared as if she'd been cryogenically frozen.
Then she burst out laughing.
Jolie let the laughter she'd been holding back explode into a hysterical peal of guffaws that made her lose her breath.
"Oh, my God," her mother wheezed brokenly. "I know it's horrible, but I just think it's too funny. He was always so proud of that p-penis and … there's just something … poetic about him being buried w-without it." She wiped her streaming eyes, struggling to get herself under control, but like Jolie, didn't seem to be making much progress,
"Oh, Mom, it was horrible," she told her. She pulled in a deep breath in a vain attempt to stem the humor still lingering in the back of her throat. She swallowed, recalling the sight of his pitiful little dick stuck awkwardly to that statue. "It had been frozen."
"Shrinkage, then," her mom deadpanned. "What a tragedy."
Jolie shook with silent laughter until her sides hurt. "Yes, well. That poor Nathan Todd was left to 'process' it, and Mike and Jake were charged with the duty of interrogating passersby to try and determine who'd glued the penis to the statue." She snickered again. "Should be interesting to hear how they tactfully broach that subject, huh?"
Her mother's smile turned thoughtful. "It was glued, you say?"
"Yep."
She hummed under her breath. "Wonder how they pulled that off. Must be some glue if it held a frozen penis in place."
Jolie rested her head against her palm. She hadn't thought of it that way. "I guess so."
"Probably used that Mega-glue, you know that kind they show on the commercials that can hold a three-ton truck by a broken chain."
Her mother turned back to the stove and tended to her sauce. "Has Jake gotten any more leads on who might have killed Chris? Is that what he wanted to talk to you about?"
"No. He'd gotten wind of some of my recent activities," Jolie said drolly, "and wanted to express his displeasure."
"Can't blame him, can you?" she asked. "He is trying to help you."
For the love of God, how many more times was she going to hear that today? "I know," Jolie told her, trying to sound grateful rather than exasperated.
"I understand why you can't tell him about the FWC," she said lightly, "but there wouldn't have been any harm in sharing the other stuff with him."
Jolie felt her jaw drop.
Her mother turned around and smiled benignly. "Who do you think encouraged your invitation?" she asked. "You know Sophia and I are friends."
She did, Jolie thought, still shocked and dumbfounded, but she'd never put it together. Actually, come to think of it, she'd never really put any thought into why Sophia, Bitsy and Meredith had approached her. Nor had she thought anything about the entire FWC attending the funeral. Her mother hadn't batted an eye … and no wonder, Jolie thought, her gaze swinging to her mom.
She'd known.
Undoubtedly she'd known everything, all along, she suddenly realized. And Jolie had gone to so much trouble to avoid her, to hide the gruesome details that weren't common knowledge at The Spa, at the Garden Center. In the nanosecond it took to make that deduction, the truth dawned and she gasped.
Sadie.
"Don't be mad at her, dear," her intuitive mother said gently. "She was just being a good friend."
She knew, still… She and Sadie—who was ordinarily very trustworthy when it came to keeping a secret—were going to have to have a little talk about exercising discretion.
"Don't you say anything to her," her mother admonished, evidently reading her line of thought. "She knew I was worried about you, and you couldn't look me in the eye." Her mother tsked. "It was heartbreakingly dreadful."
Jolie swallowed. "It was too hard, Mom," she confessed. "I was so ashamed."
"And I understood that, which is why I never pushed it." Her expression softened. "But I can't tell you what a relief it is to put all of this behind us, and though I know it's awful of me to say this—which is why you'd better not ever repeat it—I hope they never find who killed Chris." She shrugged and turned back around. "Far as I'm concerned, that person did the world a favor, and most assuredly did you one. Whether you'd divorced him or not, he'd never have been completely out of your life. People like him—soul suckers—they just hang around forever, feeding off other people's misery."
She'd never spoken it aloud either, but her mother had just neatly described how she felt about Chris's killer as well. She hadn't wanted Chris to die, had certainly never wanted him to be murdered. But she was not sorry that he was out of her life, and she was definitely better off as a widow than she would have been as a divorcee. Her mother was right. Divorce wouldn't have been the end of it. He would have dropped back into her life, sprinkling the acid of his presence and infecting everything she ever touched. She knew it.
This way it was over. She'd buried him today and she could finally move on, an action she intended to embrace beginning right now. Jolie felt a slow grin move across her lips.
After all, if Jake kept her out of jail, she'd have a house to decorate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Her insides quivering with pent-up anxiety, Sophia patted her hair and smoothed away a non-existent wrinkle from her trendy linen pantsuit as she made her way up Edward's carefully manicured walk. Bulbs, vines and delicate flowers and shrubs bloomed in perfect harmony around his garden and every blade of grass had been tended with razor-perfec
tion.
A closer look at his flower beds showed not a single weed and from the looks of things, he'd made his own mulch because, unlike some of the cheaper bagged varieties, every piece was uniform in shape and size, giving each cultivated inch a more polished quality.
Sophia pursed her lips and reluctantly acknowledged the bit of grudging admiration trying to worm its way into her jealous heart. And he didn't just plant the no-brainers—pinks, petunias and impatiens—he'd chosen finicky plants which required a great deal of time and maintenance, ones that had to be nursed and coaxed.
Edward opened the front door and a welcoming smile spread across his lips and infected those Paul Newman blues. "Ah," he sighed. "I thought I saw a new flower out here. You look lovely, Sophia."
Again she found herself resisting the ridiculous urge to preen. She was in her early sixties. She had stretch marks, varicose veins, wrinkles and cellulite. At best she'd held up well, but she knew she was far from lovely. Nevertheless, she smiled and said thank you, and did her best to hold her ground and not bolt like the frightened coward she suddenly felt like. "I was just admiring your garden, Edward, and I must confess I have to take back every uncharitable thing I've ever said about your being undeserving of the Presidency of the Garden Club." She cast an approving eye around his lawn. "You've done a wonderful job here and from now on when you offer advice, I daresay I'll be listening a little more closely."
Those blue eyes twinkled with mischief and he gave his jaw a thoughtful stroke. "No longer 'insufferable with an exalted opinion of my own wit' then?"
Sophia flushed, but lifted her chin. "That's right. It would appear that you do know it all and I stand corrected."
"Well, I'd like it better if you'd stand inside. Come on in," he told her, opening the door. "My biscuits are going to burn."
"That would be a tragedy," she replied drolly.
He looked back at her over his shoulder and a smile that affected only one side of his mouth shaped his lips. "Tragedy is a bit dramatic, but it would definitely be unfortunate seeing as that's what I promised you for breakfast." His gaze caught and held hers. "Disappointing you would be the tragedy."
His low voice resonated with a combination of innuendo and sincerity and once again her body experienced another slow simmering burn. Sophia knew she had absolutely no business checking into Edward's private affairs, but that hadn't kept her from contacting a good friend who worked at the local doctor's office. She'd asked her to check Edward's charts and, while Sophia had waited with bated breath, the woman had come back on the line with a good report. Everything seemed to be in good working order and he'd never been prescribed any sexual enhancement aids.
She'd hung up the phone, let go a small shuddering breath, then raided her refrigerator until she'd soothed the nerves she'd wrecked by making the call in the first place.
Edward's kitchen was large and spacious with high ceilings, glass-fronted cabinets and antique reproduction appliances. A long trestle table served double duty as a work island and dozens of worn, gleaming pots and pans hung from an old door that had been fashioned with big hooks for easy storage.
The scent of buttery biscuits filled the room and the table had been loaded down with all of her favorite foods, the very ones she'd made for herself the morning he'd shown up and joined her for breakfast.
He saw her looking at the table and a flash of red color hit his cheeks. "I, uh… I just wanted to make sure that I had everything here that you liked."
Touched, Sophia struggled to find her voice. "Thanks, Edward. My mouth thanks you, but my hips are pissed."
He chuckled, the sound warm and intimate in the fragrant kitchen. "There's nothing wrong with your hips. They're perfect." He turned around and tended to a pan of scrambled eggs on the stove. "I should know. I've been admiring them for months."
Sophia blinked. "For months?"
He shot her another look over his shoulder. "I've been coming by your house for months, which is blocks out of the way from my own. What did you think I was doing?"
"Walking for your health."
He grunted. "If I wanted to walk for my health, then I damned sure wouldn't be strolling past your house. Seeing your rump sticking out of a flower bed does things to my old heart that could be downright dangerous at my age."
"Do you have a heart condition?" she asked, grateful for the sentiment but suddenly wary of possible … problems.
"Not in the literal sense, no," he told her cryptically. "I'm healthy as a horse."
Sophia released a relieved sigh. "That's good."
"Thank you. I wasn't aware that you were concerned." He turned around once more and emptied the pan onto an awaiting plate. "At least, I hadn't been until Janice Lowery told me that you'd asked about my general health. She's a friend of mine as well."
Sophia's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and every ounce of blood she possessed raced to her face. Her heart tripped and emptying her stomach became a genuine fear. She'd kill her, Sophia decided. The minute she left here, she fully intended to run Janice to ground and rip every salt-and-pepper hair out of her head.
He grinned. "Did I pass muster?"
"You did," Sophia told him tightly. "Right up until this moment." She snatched her purse from the counter and hurried from the room. God, she was so embarrassed. She wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and die.
"Sophia, wait!" Edward called, hurrying after her. "Please wait. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I just— Aw, hell, I was flattered and I—"
Sophia felt mortified tears burn the backs of her eyes and, muttering a string of dire curses, darted through the dining room. She'd almost reached the door when Edward caught up with her. He snagged her arm and turned her around.
"Sophia, please," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. It's just you've given me hell all spring and I—" His voice turned into a tortured growl. "You make me crazy. Half the time I can't make up my mind if I want to kiss you or throttle you. You're prickly, but sweet, and you're unlike any woman I've ever known … and I've wanted you for … forever."
Startled by the confession, Sophia glanced up. Edward tenderly cupped her cheek and before she could form a protest—or even prepare herself for that matter—his gaze dropped to her lips, and his mouth followed suit and she suddenly found herself being kissed. Her knees all but buckled and the tears that had been borne of mortification suddenly turned to tears of joy. She tore her mouth away from his. "Your biscuits will burn," she warned breathlessly.
He kissed her lids, then her nose, then the corner of her mouth. "To hell with the biscuits."
Sophia sagged against him, smiled against his lips and with a slow, desperate groan of surrender, she wrapped her arms around his neck and simply gave herself up to the exquisite perfection of the moment.
After all these years of being alone—and being with the wrong man—she'd earned it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jake shifted tiredly in his seat, continuing to watch Jolie roll dark gold paint onto her living room walls. The smooth tunes of Norah Jones wafted out her open windows, weaving around his senses.
Wearing a pair of frayed denim cut-offs and a white tank top, her hair pulled up into a messy ponytail, she looked like a poster girl for home-improvement. Watching her stretch and reach, seeing her belly-button play peek-a-boo every time she moved, had turned into a sadistic form of torture for him.
Hell, he should just go home, Jake thought, wearily rubbing a hand over his face. He'd left work this afternoon, had dropped by the barn long enough to feed and determine that tonight probably wasn't going to be the night for Marzipan, then remembering Dean's latest edict to "watch her every move," he'd driven back and parked across the street from her house.
She knew he was there, of course. She'd looked out the window, seen him sitting there, then when she'd figured out that he'd put her under surveillance, she'd smiled and waggled her fingers at him.
Smart-ass, Jake thought, feeling
a faint grin tug at his lips. The best he could tell, other than working on her house and doing away with all the extra office furniture and equipment she didn't need from Marshall Inc., she'd done exactly what she'd told him she planned to do—move on. If it wasn't for the lingering fear that haunted those pale green eyes, he'd buy into her whole unconcerned facade, but he knew better. She might be moving on … but that hadn't kept her from having a healthy fear of going to jail.
He'd checked back with the insurance companies that had covered Chris and so far she didn't seem to be in any hurry to meet with them and satisfy her claim. He'd followed her around town the past couple of days, watching her load her car down with various domestic goods. He'd tailed her to Moore's Furniture on the square, had pulled his truck up in front of the huge glass-paned windows and watched her select her furniture. At one point she'd held up a couple of pillows, pointed at each in turn and quirked a brow, soliciting his opinion.
Typical Jolie, Jake thought. She wasn't going to let him know that she was the least bit worried about who'd killed Chris or about being pinned with his murder. Pretending to be confident in her innocence, she was moving blithely along seemingly without a care in the world, completely oblivious to the fact that her sweet little ass was on the line and that becoming someone's bitch in prison could too easily become a reality if this case didn't break soon.
As he'd predicted, the D.A. had sought him out, wanting to know all of the particulars on the case. Jake had filled him in, making certain that he realized Jolie's alibi was tight, even if everything else had been shaky. But true to form, the D.A. had been skeptical. "If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, it's a damned duck," he'd argued. Jake had held his ground and presented a host of other suspects—each of which Jake had culled as well, though he'd neglected to share that—and hoped that something significant happened soon. If it didn't, he didn't know what would happen.
THE FUTURE WIDOW'S CLUB Page 16
